


Saudade

by NotPersephone



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Post Florence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-15
Updated: 2016-09-15
Packaged: 2018-08-15 05:55:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8044921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotPersephone/pseuds/NotPersephone
Summary: Hannibal and Bedelia face the memories of their time together in Florence.





	Saudade

The door to Hannibal’s memory palace is in the centre of his mind. It leads to immense spaces with well-lighted and precisely categorised exhibits. All rooms are designed with a geometrical precision and no object is placed without careful consideration. With the exception of one room.

Bedelia’s chamber in the palace is peculiar. It smells of flowers and spices, sweet yet sharp, and is in constant motion. At times, the room seems to best him, locking the door and denying him access. On other occasions, the door opens and the light pours out overpowering his senses.

His nights used to be haunted by visions of Misha, now he dreams of Bedelia.

He feels her body on top of his and is suddenly blinded by a vision of blonde hair as she leans forward to kiss him. He can taste the sweetness of her skin, the most exquisite and unparalleled delicacy.

He observes the dream figure rising to rest above him, astride his body, and remembers all of their intimate moments in Florence.

His gaze had never left hers. She was a vision of perfection. His muse, a Venus reborn. The masters of Renaissance would have lost their sanity trying to emulate her beauty.

They spoke all night in tongues and fingertips.

During those precious moments he touched divinity and it felt like falling.

And he had never come down on the ground.

Hannibal reaches out to touch her and, in that moment, she disappears. He wakes up abruptly with the lingering sensation of her teeth on his neck and the echo of her sighs in his ear.

 

The following day he spends countless hours hunched over a table, trying to recreate her visage in paper and pencil, yet he’s never satisfied with any of the pieces.

As the night arrives, Hannibal falls into another troubled dream.

The door in his memory palace breaks open and the familiar light lures him in like a beacon.

This time the chamber is empty, apart from a single window and a woman standing in front of it. Just like in Florence, Bedelia’s figure is illuminated by the warm glow of the street lights.

As he approaches her, she turns her head revealing her beautiful profile. He hears her voice echoing on the vacant walls.

_“History repeats itself, and there is no escape.”_

There is a gentle smile on her lips but sadness in her eyes.

As his fingers move close enough to brush her hair, all the lights go out and the room shuts its door leaving Hannibal on the outside.

The sleep does not come to him again. He stares into the empty space and wonders where does the darkness of the cell end and where does the one in his heart begin.

Hannibal had always considered the purgatory of his childhood nightmares as the most painful. Now he knows he was wrong. Nothing hurts more than paradise lost.

                                                                                            ************

 

“Have you ever been in love Doctor?”, asks a woman sitting across the room from Bedelia.

Her case was quite straightforward, a divorce-induced anxiety, and Bedelia was scarcely engaged. Until the inquiry stirred her mind.

She dismisses the question. It is common for patients to try to establish a personal bond with their therapist. She turns the conversation around and shifts the focus back to her client, but it leaves her unusually uncomfortable.

After the session, a tedious social gathering occupies her afternoon.  The same faces, the same questions; nothing to pique her interest or stimulate her mind.

Bedelia finds herself distracted by the piano music filling the room. The Goldberg Variations is more than familiar. She has come to associate it with Hannibal, to the point where it has never been more than a passing thought.

This time, however, the music brought forward recollections of their time in Florence.

 All the afternoons they spent together. Carefree moments when no words were needed.

She sat in the armchair, her eyes on a book. He sat at the harpsichord, his eyes on her.

She remembers how he had casually inquired, over dinner one night, which composers she preferred. And, from the following day, he played only her favourite pieces.

Bedelia allows herself a moment of indulgence, as a genuine smile passes her lips, before dismissing the mental image. Thinking about the past is inherently sentimental and there is no edification in nostalgia.

 

Yet reminiscence has a gravitational force.

While she lays awake at night, a new wave of longing washes ashore. Sleep does not come easily as she’s chilled to the bone.

Another memory floats to surface of her mind and she recalls her first week in Italy with Hannibal.

“You look as though you are very cold Bedelia. Is everything alright?” he asked one night, looking over to her side of the bed.

“My body is prone to coldness” she replied, turning her head towards him, “it is normal for me and nothing to be concerned about.”

“I’m fine,” she added and turned away.

She sensed him move and a gentle arm reached over her waist. He brought her closer to him, his warm body enveloping hers.

Her muscles tensed but he did not let her go and she did not move away. As the warmth replaced the cold, her tension gave way to a curious comfort and she let herself melt into his arms. That was the first time she had slept in another person’s arms.

Bedelia brushes the memory away. She won’t be at the mercy of sentiments. Or emotions.

_“Have you ever been in love?”_

“No, I don’t think so” she says out loud, as if pleading her case to the empty space.

The deafening silence seems to be taunting her.

Her gaze moves to a small box sitting atop her bedside table. She opens it and takes out the only object inside, her wedding ring.

She puts it on her finger. The cool metal feels familiar and somehow reassuring against her skin. Like an anchor in the rising sea of melancholy.

She knows there is no remedy for memories.

All of her life Bedelia was fond of her solitude and had never questioned it.

Until he had loved her.

**Author's Note:**

> Saudade is a Portuguese word for a deep emotional state of nostalgic or profound melancholic longing for an absent someone (or something) that one loves.
> 
> "We spoke all night in tongues, in fingertips, in teeth" comes from a poem "Spring" by Robert Hass.
> 
> Always fangirling at http://bedeliainwonderland.tumblr.com/


End file.
